A Requiem for My Free Will

Whack by whack, I mucked through the indecency and brutality of that hellish underbrush with My machete, forever being prodded and persecuted by the bramble and its dominatrix temperament.

With a spiteful conviction I managed to penetrate My way into a sparse clearing, sweat-soaked, while curses of obscene damnation fermented within My larynx as I panted for oxygen.

Belaboring to catch My breath, I lifted My arms above My head to expand and assist My faltering lungs, as I did so, I caught a staggering glimpse of euphoria incarnate. It was none other than Fluxus Ignis–the florid-fire hoop dryad who spellbound and usurped My aphrodisia last Spring.

I must admit, any semblance of carnal memory is opaque, as I vaguely recall awakening the following Summer to a requiem for My free will. Her possession over Me was a performance art, and I was her marionette doll.

Time had softly revived Me from that funereal somnambulism that I had succumbed to, and I stood there a resurrected soul. Tachycardic, with an omen-flow of blood accumulating in a specific region, I picked up My machete and reconciled with the thorny thickets from whence I came, before she could pervade My senses yet again, and muddle all reason and Self-control beyond the point of no return.